


A Couple of Forces of Nature

by Doyle



Category: Arrested Development
Genre: Cousin Incest, F/M, Fix-It, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 05:03:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doyle/pseuds/Doyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 4 fic. Instead of firing Maeby, George Michael tells her everything. This turns out to be the opposite of a huge mistake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Couple of Forces of Nature

**Author's Note:**

  * For [giraffeofpaper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giraffeofpaper/gifts).



Back when he was a kid, whenever he’d had a problem or an ethical dilemma, George Michael always used to ask himself: _what would Dad do?_

Or he tried to, at least. Most of the time blank panic swept over him and it wasn’t until afterwards when, say, the banana stand was a pile of ash and timber on the boardwalk, that his father would ask “So what did we learn here, buddy, huh?” And he always answered his own question, before George Michael could: “Just think about the problem. Stop, and think, and ask yourself ‘what’s the smartest thing I could do in this situation? What would my dad do?’”

Although that time he’d burned down the banana stand his father had been right there helping him pour the gasoline, so it clearly wasn’t a perfect system.

Right now, staring after his cousin in terror as she went on talking about the big launch in two days for a program that would never exist, George Michael missed those simpler days. Sure, his mom had just died, and Pop-Pop was in jail, but all he’d had to worry about back then was perfecting his elaborate fantasy scenario for how he was going to win Maeby’s heart without anyone in the family getting mad.

Thank God this was the week when he’d finally gotten over her. Dealing with loving his cousin _and_ learning he was on the hook for hundreds of thousands of dollars would have been too much. Especially with finals in a month.

“Maeby,” he said, not loud enough to be heard across the airplane-hangar vastness of the warehouse. Her golf cart was almost at the opposite wall – _golf carts_ , in a place of business that wasn’t a golf course, and he knew the exact face his dad would make if he could see all this. The thought made him want to throw up. His father wouldn’t just be mad. He’d be seriously, no-kidding, I’m-out-of-this-family furious. The first thing he’d do, no question, would be to fire Maeby.

George Michael opened his mouth to say, “Maeby, you’re fired.”

And then he thought about how his father had spent six months, at forty-two years old, squatting in his kid’s dorm.

For the first time in his life, George Michael tried out the thought: _what would Mom do?_

The words that came out of his mouth were “Maeby. I need help.”

Mort trotted after the cart to get her, and when she came walking back her smile was smooth and patient, like she thought this was nerves, or a problem with the software. Something easy to fix.

He made himself focus on fake software and hordes of angry investors, and not on thinking about how his fourteen-year-old self would have defrauded ten times as many stockholders if it meant getting Maeby’s undivided attention. And his fifteen-year-old self. And, really, every version of George Michael who’d existed up to a week ago.

“It’s too much, right? Look, I know this whole nerdcore thing isn’t you. It’s the least George Michael-y thing I can think of. It’s just what people expect from internet billionaires. You can hang out in the little office with the desk. I’ll even make sure you get that extra chair you wanted, okay?

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said.

“Sure,” Maeby said. “Sure. What?”

George Michael took a deep breath. “Everything.”

**

Thirty-eight seconds into his confession Maeby grabbed him by the arm and hustled him out of the hangar – “Wait!” Mort called after them, still clutching their coffees, “Should I know what a woodblock is?” – and two and a half minutes after that she was yelling at him in the parking lot. There was a lot of _you told me I could trust you_ and _God,_ _you’re just like the rest of this stupid family_ and in the end he sat down on the steps of the staircar that wasn’t even his anymore and waited for her to run out of steam. She’d never been this angry at him before.

But she knew, and he wasn’t in this alone.

Lying had been scarily easy, but telling the truth was a relief. So much so, in fact, he found it hard to stop.

“What I don’t get,” Maeby said two hours later, in the bar, “is what Gob making out with you in a gay club has to do with Fakeblock.”

“It was actually a gay theme night at a magic club,” he said, because he hadn’t been brave enough to refuse the neat scotch she’d ordered for them both and he always fixated on details when he had a buzz on. “And it’s unrelated. It’s just a thing that happened to me recently.”

“Faked a software empire. Got to first base with our uncle. That’s what college kids get up to?”

“Maybe if you make it through twelfth grade this time round you’ll find out,” he said. In his head it had seemed witty, like debonair banter, but that must have been the alcohol. It came out of his mouth sounding small and mean, and Maeby scowled and downed the rest of her drink. His throat burned in sympathy. “Does that really count as first base, anyway? I never... never really understood the baseball thing, and I don’t think Ann explained it very well...”

“I’m done with high school this time,” Maeby said coolly. “I’m almost there. I’d ask you to my graduation but, y’know, I don’t know if they still do that prison day release thing. Since that’s where you’re headed when the backers find out you basically stole their money.”

“We.”

“ _Oui, bien_... I want to say _bien sure_. Is that right? So glad I switched to Spanish.”

“No, _we_ , as in you and me,” George Michael told her. “We’re both in trouble, Maeby. If anything, you’re the one who talked all those people out of the money. I never asked you to do that.”

Her eyes were huge and hurt, and for a second she looked thirteen again. He had to look away. “You’d throw me under the bus for this, seriously? We’re family. And two hours ago you said you’d been in love with me for ten years.”

George Michael rubbed at his eyes. When he started confessing things, he just didn’t know when to stop. “You can’t use both those things against me at the same time,” he said. “Pick one or the other. And... when I said that, I meant... I did have feelings for you for a long time. In the past tense. I think I said I _had been_ in love with – English is a complicated language. But that was all before Rebel.”

“Right, because you’re dating Rebel Alley.”

“Yes.”

“Who still thinks you’re George Maharis, rich, brilliant, Fakeblock genius.”

“I’m not saying the relationship’s perfect.”

Maeby folded her arms across her chest. “Okay,” she said. “You’re right. I got us into this. I’ll fix it. Barry owes me a favor, he’s got to know something about fraud – what am I saying, he’s our family’s attorney, of course he does.”

It was a tiny shred of hope, and only the truly desperate would rely on Barry Zuckerkorn’s legal brilliance, but George Michael was just about there. “That’s great,” he said. “That’s perfect.”

“Speaking of perfect –“ and that cool smile was back, like a Maeby-mask had dropped over her face. “My boyfriend’s an undercover cop. If Barry doesn’t come through maybe he can help.”

“Oh.” What sort of cop dated a high school senior, even a fake one? Probably the kind his Uncle Gob used to hang around with, all tall and tanned and muscled and able to get any girl they wanted. “That’s amazing. I’m excited. I feel like we’ve turned this around. Only I’m just thinking, he’s not gonna, you know... turn us in? Or expect you to, to, to do something for him? To him? No, for him sounds... Do we even need to try and fight this thing? Pop-Pop seemed to have a great time in prison.”

“Don’t worry about Perfecto,” Maeby said. “He’ll do whatever I want.”

**

“So, on the bright side, I found out Perfecto’s really seventeen before I made a pretty huge mistake.”

That was the only good news George Michael had had in two days. And since it also meant that the stud cop boyfriend couldn’t help them, it was still pretty bad.

“I can’t believe it,” Maeby went on, dropping onto the couch before he could warn her that the furniture didn’t do so well with sudden movements. “I was so sure he was my age. I mean, I would’ve let him do anything to me. _Anything_.”

No, he took it back. This Perfecto guy being out of the picture was amazing news.

She was staring behind him, at the clock above the fake fireplace, and George Michael said, “That came with the house. It doesn’t work. It’s six-thirteen.”

“Perfecto’s gonna be waiting for me by the donkey punch stand.”

Perfecto, Perfecto, all they ever talked about these days was Perfecto. He missed when they’d at least discussed algebra. “You didn’t break up with him? The seventeen-year-old?”

“Yeah, you may not have noticed this about me,” Maeby drawled, “but I don’t always make the best decisions.”

Sitting here with the cousin he’d been secretly in love with for years, in the house he’d impulse-bought to please his father, while they waited to be arrested for the massive fraud they’d accidentally committed together, he couldn’t say anything but, “No, I get that. Me too. We’re...” He stopped himself before he could tell a girl he’d once gotten to second base with, assuming he’d understood that term correctly, that they were like twins.

Instead he said, “If it makes you feel better, everything went to hell with Rebel.”

“Why would that make me feel better?” But she was quiet for ten seconds and then said, “What happened?”

“It was a few things. Little things. She’s still seeing some other guy. And I think I came on too strong, buying this house and everything. And there’s that thing where I’ve misled her about my whole identity. It’s probably better this way,” he added. “She’s famous, and she has a five-year-old, and she has a couple of court-mandated PSAs lined up this month. She doesn’t need some criminal boyfriend.” Spinning it that way felt noble, like he’d done something romantic and self-sacrificing and not just stopped returning a girl’s calls.

Maeby was glaring up at the ceiling; still mad, he guessed, about missing her date with her underage, fake-undercover boyfriend.

“Six-fifteen,” he said. “If you were wondering. It’s six-fifteen now.”

“Fifty-five minutes from now they’ll be waiting for your keynote speech.”

“Forty-five minutes. Not that it matters. But seven’s forty-five minutes away. Or, forty-four now.”

“This is dumb.” Maeby swung herself up and off the couch. The sudden movement sent one side dipping towards the ground. “Let’s just go to the party. Nobody even knows you’re George Maharis. And it could be days before Lucille Two calls the cops.”

“Why would...”

“Oh, I didn’t tell you that part yet? I borrowed more money from Lucille Two to pay back the other investors. If we have to embezzle from somebody, it better be somebody who loves our family, right?”

That probably sounded more reassuring in her head. “I still have no idea who this woman is.”

“No? She dated Uncle Buster when we were kids. And Uncle Gob, I think. Guess she has some kind of weird thing for Bluth men.”

He didn’t like the look she was casting his way at all.

“I’m gonna skip the party,” he said. “I never liked Cinco, anyway.” That was true. He’d always faked enthusiasm because his dad thought he loved it, insisted he’d been the same way himself as a kid, but it was loud and crowded and he didn’t see the point of buying things just to break them and mariachi bands creeped him out.

Plus who knew what sort of choices Maeby would make after some donkey punch. She’d either hook up with Perfecto or try to pimp him out to this rich old lady who he could still swear he’d never met. Or both. If this Fakeblock mess had taught him anything it was that for someone on her fifth time through high school, Maeby could really get stuff done.

“Fine. I’ll go by myself,” Maeby said, but she didn’t make any move to actually leave.

George Michael said, “Why don’t we have a party right here?”

**

That idea would’ve worked out better if he’d had any alcohol or food or themed breakables in the house. There was the little model of the Alhambra he’d brought back from his year in Spain, but he wasn’t about to destroy his one souvenir of the woman who’d taught him his first lessons in _el amor physicale_. And anyway, it was back in his old dorm room.

He expected Maeby to leave for the beachfront party without him, but she said, “There’s a ton of Mike’s Hard in the old house.”

There was a ton of garbage too, pizza boxes and takeout cartons strewn over the chairs and the coffee table, but no sign of his uncles.

Maeby made straight for the cabinet with the alcohol, and George Michael took a minute to look around at the model home. It didn’t look too different. Messier, and somebody had taken a chunk out of the fireplace, but there was the breakfast bar where he’d eaten every morning, and that was the refrigerator that used to fall into the garage if you opened the door too hard, and over there was the couch where he’d kissed Maeby for the first time...

He had never told anyone, but he really missed this place.

“I don’t know how much my dad and Gob drank, but the alcohol’s almost gone.” Maeby shoved a bottle of lemonade into his hand. “I hated this house.”

“Oh, yeah. Me too. I was just thinking about how I hated it.”

Halfway through his third bottle – Maeby’s fifth – he said, “What would your mom and dad do? About the money and Fakeblock and the fraud,” he added, when Maeby just looked at him like she hadn’t understood the question.

“Lie and drink and live in denial,” she said. “Exactly what we’re doing. Who cares what they’d do?”

They were on the floor with their backs to the couch, Maeby warm against his shoulder, and he wondered if she remembered they’d been here once before.

“It’s just something I used to think a lot,” he said. “When I was a kid I thought, sure, this is all confusing and scary now but I’ll grow up and everything’s gonna make sense. I’ll have all the answers. I thought it’d get easier.”

Maeby said, “You grew up in this family and you thought grown-ups had all the answers?”

“I mean, not your parents. Or Gob. Obviously not Buster.” And not Gangie, after that time she’d dragged him to that creepy dress-up pageant for moms and sons. His grandfather had always seemed, still seemed, some distant, unknowable presence.

That left his dad.

He didn’t know any more what he thought of his dad.

“Well, Barry didn’t have a lot of answers. He just said we should steal a boat and make for international waters.” Maeby shrugged. “Those weren’t his exact words.”

Fifteen-year-old George Michael would have been speechless with joy at the thought of running away with Maeby. Even the twenty-three-year-old version, with a better grasp of what it would mean to drop his entire life, had to admit to himself that if there was ever an ironclad _this is what my dad would do_ , this was it.

_Say goodbye, because we’re out of this family._

“That could work. There’ll be a ton of boats at the marina tonight.” He dropped his head back against the couch cushions and tried to muster up some enthusiasm for this. “We’d have to leave a note.”

Maeby didn’t look thrilled at the idea but she hadn’t said no. And if anything, it should be easier for her. As far as he knew she’d barely seen any of the family in years, even her parents. Tobias and Lindsay probably wouldn’t even...

Oh.

“They’d notice you were gone,” he said, letting George Maharis out for one last lie. “Your mom and dad. Everybody would miss you.” But lying, he’d learned, was easier if you slipped some truth in there, so he added, “And then they’ll be sorry because missing you’s terrible. I should know. I’ve been doing it for years.”

Maeby had been playing with the fringes of the couch cover, but now she stopped, bright strands frozen between her fingers. He didn’t dare look her in the face. He was trying hard not to even think about Maeby’s face, or her hair, or how the exact pattern of freckles on her left cheek hadn’t changed at all in the past five years.

“Anyway, if you don’t want to skip town we won’t,” he said. “I shouldn’t try to make the decisions for both of us. That’s – it’s what my dad would do, and I hate it, and I don’t want to do that to somebody I...”

“Stop talking about the family,” Maeby told him. “It’s making this weird.” But that was a couple of minutes later, and she had to break off the kiss to say it, and by that time he didn’t know what he’d been saying, or who she was talking about.

He didn’t even stop to obsess over what exactly she meant by “When did you get _good_ at this?” Growing up might not mean having all the answers, but you could at least be smart about which questions didn’t need them.

**

 _“I knew it! I_ always _knew...”_

George Michael half-opened his eyes.

“Was that Uncle Michael?” Maeby murmured into his shoulder.

“No. Don’t worry about it,” he whispered back. If that had been his father yelling somewhere in the house, he reasoned, he’d be falling out of this lower bunk right now. He’d be desperately trying to get both of them dressed and it would all be panic and terror and guilt. That was what George Michael would do.

So it must have been some kind of weird shared dream, because he had no inclination to move from this bed, possibly ever again.

“Maeby,” he said, but his mouth was against her hair and he was half-asleep; either of those things might have been why it came out sounding a lot like “Marry me.”

He couldn’t figure out, as he went back to sleep, what _she_ had meant to say that sounded a lot like “Yes”.


End file.
